


The Thinker of Tender Thoughts

by SpeakingWithInk



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (Slightly), Acephobia, Anxious Louis, Asexual Character, Asexual Louis, Christmas, Coming Out, Internalized Acephobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 14:58:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5460599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpeakingWithInk/pseuds/SpeakingWithInk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis sits on his hands to stop them from shaking as he adds, ‘and I’m ace.’ If only he had glitter, he thinks. Coming out deserves a bit of sparkle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thinker of Tender Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smell_the_roses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smell_the_roses/gifts).



Big thank you to the following people: Chiri [(X)](http://gemsandotherstones.tumblr.com), Milena[(X)](http://ace-louis.tumblr.com),Naomi[(X)](http://vsmall.tumblr.com) and Niamh [(X)](http://hellomynameisniamh.tumblr.com)[(X)](https://twitter.com/ayrrh). They were all absolutely incredible, and stopped this fic from being a mess and too Australian. Also to C.G.C [(X)](http://yslstylinsonn.tumblr.com) who did so much to describe sexual attraction for me, and even went as far as comparing it to ‘a stream of lava.’ I mean, thanks.

And finally, to my prompt giver. They were all fantastic, and it took me ages to choose between the three. I hope this is alright xx Thank you.

 

 _“Shel Silverstein’s illustration, ‘The Thinker of Tender Thoughts,’ perfectly captures the difficulties of staying true to oneself when face-to-face with the world. The most tender thoughts, though carefully cultivated and privately adored, once exposed to the public, may become subject to our intrinsic capacity for self-destruction.”- Melody Godfred_ [ _x_ ](http://www.writeincolor.com/2011/08/29/the-thinker-of-tender-thoughts-by-shel-silverstein/)

 

Louis’ a confident guy.

He’s confident and loud, not so much that it’s overbearing, but just enough that people grasp onto him with fingers that are fixed shut. He has the support of all his family and friends, he has the admiration of his English students and the company of his football team.

What he hasn’t had is a good date in a long time.

He can count the number of good dates on one hand, and most of those had been in high school. It screams _pathetic_ , he knows, now that he’s a proper adult and everything. At least, that’s what society says. He’s not sure if he cares as much. The wood under his elbow is uncomfortably sticky and he moves it with a grimace.

Louis watches through the window as Joseph rounds the corner to enter the café. He’s got a whole stack of books wedged under one arm and they keep slipping. Louis makes a mental note; if the date is somehow successful, he will need to buy Joseph a library bag.

They had met in the very chair Louis is sitting in, with the same sticky table. Both were regular customers at the café and loved tea, which Louis already considered a plus. For months they had exchanged small talk, but it was only two weeks ago when Louis was given a phone number, hastily scribbled onto a napkin.

Joseph takes his place opposite Louis, placing the books under his chair. He extends his arm, hand open and inviting. Louis shakes it firmly as a waitress approaches their table.

Fifteen minutes later, after a retelling of a beach holiday and an explanation for Joseph’s smashed phone, a plate of hot chips and two mugs of tea are placed on their table. Louis would much rather eat wedges over hot chips, but Joseph had offered to pay and he certainly wasn’t the type to waste free food.

“It was new too,” the man continues, his mouth turned down in an exaggerated frown. “Such a shame. But now the apple watch is out, so I might as well get that instead of repairing this one.”

“Right,” Louis nods. He positions his hand so his ring is in Joseph’s view. It makes a dull clank as it touches the wood of the table. “Of course.”

Joseph blushes and hides his face in his tea. It’s the first time he’s stopped talking, though he hasn’t said anything about the ring. “Tell me about yourself. What’s life like for you?”

This is where Louis needs to make a decision. Does he reveal his sexuality with a flourish, or does he cover it up and reveal it later? He tilts his head as he tries to picture Joseph’s reaction. With luck, hopefully today will go alright. He crosses his fingers.

After taking a deep breath he raises an eyebrow playfully. “I’ve got an iphone 5, if you’re interested.” He sits on his hands to stop them from shaking as he adds, “And I’m ace.” If only he had glitter, he thinks. Coming out deserves a bit of sparkle.

Joseph cocks his head in amusement. “You are very ace.”

Alright, that’s not too bad of a reaction, Louis thinks. At this stage there are three options. Joseph is a lovely, caring person who’s open to the idea of asexuality, and has possibly been on tumblr or a similar social media website to learn more about the asexual spectrum. Number two: he’s asexual himself and is overjoyed to find someone who relates to him. Or the feared number three: he simply doesn’t know what ‘ace’ is short for and requires some educating.

Louis has to use nine years of theatre experience to suppress the nervousness from showing on his face. “I’ve always liked the term ‘ace.’ It further proves that all asexual people are brilliant at everything.”

As Joseph frowns in confusion, Louis can feel the bubble of hope in his chest pop. “I’m sorry, I think I missed what you said.”

He searches Joseph’s face for further clues. “Asexual people excel in life.”

“I still don’t understand.” The slow turn of the lips tell Louis that the smile is apologetic. He reluctantly places Joseph in the _three_ category. He has to remind himself that the date isn’t over yet, and that a quick explanation of his orientation shouldn’t ruin everything.

“I said I’m ace,” Louis starts. His hands are starting to get tingly as he continues to sit on them. “It’s short for asexual. It means that I don’t experience sexual attraction, although there’s a whole spectrum, and I can’t speak for every person under the ace umbrella because everyone is different.”

Joseph squints. It’s not a good look on him. “There are asexual people? Like, plant reproduction?”

Louis shakes his head and slouches. He always seems to pick people that think they know everything.“No. It means that I in particular don’t feel sexually attracted to people. I can be romantically attracted, however, but not sexually. It’s got nothing to do with plants.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Joseph says matter-of-factly, “Sexual attraction and humankind go hand in hand.”

“Well, I can prove that your theory is one hundred percent wrong, firstly because there’s an asexual person sitting right in front of you and-”

“It’s part of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Sex is included in one of the most fundamental needs, at the base of the triangle.”

“It’s different,” Louis tries to hide his frustration, but it shows in the way his voice breaks. “It’s fundamental to the human race as a whole, yes, but it’s not for me. I’m not dying right now because my ding-aling isn’t up and running.”

“You don’t like sex at all?” Joseph seems to be in some sort of shock. Louis would find it funny if he wasn’t so focused on keeping his bottom lip intact.

“It’s not that I don’t like it. I don’t _care_ for it, because I don’t see the need to. The whole frick-frack idea seems unnecessary to me. I’m quite happy to stay away from a hoo ha or a gumbum or a dinkidonk, etcetera etcetera.”

Joseph’s expression turns stony and closed off. “You don’t have to make something up to tell me to sod off.”

“I’m not-”

“I know how plant reproduction works,” Joseph all but glares. “I’m not _stupid._ You could have just said you don’t find me appealing, and I’d be fine with it. Don’t make up all this bullshit and try to get away with it.”

The chips Louis had eaten are all stuck in his throat. “There are people that don’t find sex the most important thing in the world, alright? That’s just how I am. I’m not lying.”

“All humans like sex,” Joseph’s top lip twitches in annoyance. “It’s in our nature. Have you been to the doctor?”

“I’m not _dysfunctional_ ,” he protests, now outraged. “It’s a sexual orientation.”

“Last week you said that you’re gay,” Joseph says flatly. He’s studying the wood of the table intently and won’t meet Louis’ eye.  

“I am!” Louis says fiercely. “I’m homoromantic and asexual.”

“And I’m a unicorn,” Joseph spits. The chair grates against the wooden floor as he stands. “You might as well date a plant, then. You’re sure as fuck not dating me.”

Another date then, just like all the last ones. Disastrous, messy and accusing. Louis tilts his chin up. He won’t be ashamed of who he is, even if people don’t understand him. “Fine.”

“Fine. You can pay for the food,” Joseph says, like it's Louis’ fault. He snatches up the books from the floor and leaves the café, door slamming behind him.

He might as well be payed, he thinks. It’s a whole job in itself, explaining his sexual orientation, like it impacts others more than it impacts himself.

Louis’ head remains on the table for the next thirty minutes as he’s reminded that he has to do this for the rest of his life.

*

 _You might as well date a plant, then_.

In the dim light of his bedroom Louis seethes, pulling the blanket up to his chin. He can never do anything right, can he?

Months ago, before he had noticed Joseph, he was dating another man. The first date had gone well, but only because Louis hadn’t found the right moment to explain himself. After another five dates and an exchange of Valentine’s Day gifts it was too late, and Louis found himself being constantly pressured to do things he didn’t want to.

When he finally told his partner, he was accused of cheating. “If you don’t find me attractive, it’s because you’re cheating on me,” he had spat, and Louis had recoiled on the couch. “Who is it? Is it someone I know?”

At this point, Louis doesn’t know which scenario is better. To be rejected without being offered a chance, or to be discarded like a broken toy? Should he even be trying anymore? It’s like the universe destined him to be alone.

The one thing Louis _does_ know is that he’s not avoiding his favourite café. Going without his tea every morning is not worth staying away from Joseph. He’s too proud and too stubborn to hide away, and he doesn’t want to appear ashamed of himself.

 _You might as well date a plant, then_.

Louis drags himself out of bed to buy himself a plant.

*

“What’s _that?”_ Joseph wrinkles his nose as he passes Louis’ table the next day. He’s got a toastie in one hand and tea in the other.

“It’s a _buxus sempervirens_.” Louis says proudly. He doesn’t even know if it’s an indoor or outdoor plant, but at the moment it’s reasonably sized and stands tall in the pot. He pretends to stare at it admirably from across the table.

“Is there not enough space on the floor? Why is it on the table?”

“I’ve taken it on a date,” Louis says and glances up at Joseph innocently, though the tilt of his head is mocking. He runs his thumb over one of the leaves affectionately.  “Beautiful, innit?”

“Stop fucking around,” Joseph sighs. “I wanted to talk about yesterday.”

At this Louis looks up hopefully. “Come to apologise?”

“No,” Joseph snaps. “But-”

“Then you can leave,” Louis smiles sweetly.

Joseph seems to take a while to process it. His look is disgruntled. “I was going to offer us a second chance.”

So Louis can be belittled constantly? Told he’ll grow out of it? Told he needs to be sexually liberated? No thanks. He doesn’t need an unnecessary therapist. “I’d rather date a plant than _you_ ,” he says, with a smile still on his face. “Just like you suggested.”

He watches with amusement as Joseph blinks, then goes red. “So you’d rather sit with a plant than with me?”

What an egotistical twat.

“Absolutely,” Louis agrees. “There’s a spare table over there. Better get it before it’s taken.” Joseph seems to consider walking out of the café all together, still red in the face. Louis finds an odd sense of satisfaction in seeing him take a deep breath and walk towards the back of the room.

Louis goes home and deletes Joseph’s number from his phone. Then in glee he takes ten photos of his plant in different lighting and places it on the bedside table.

*

It becomes a habit after that. Louis gives up on dating other people and treats himself once a week. He’s never been ashamed with the idea of being ‘alone’, as everyone puts it. He has friends who he can hug and annoy at the same time. He has his family and his plants. He doesn’t need a partner to tell him he’s important or special.

He continues his walks in the park and buys himself warm jumpers when autumn arrives. He paints his nails a sickening shade of orange for Halloween and takes himself skateboarding in a secluded area where his students won’t find him. After a few months he finds that he has more than enough plants to keep his room nicely oxygenated, even though he doesn’t know how to look after them properly.

On his dates, he brings his plants with him and places them on the opposite side of the table. No one has approached him about it so far, and he’s started to think that carrying a plant around isn’t as strange as it seems.  

Louis’ pondering this thought when someone in front of him clears their throat.

Louis looks up, and has to _keep_ looking up, because this man is very tall. He’s staring at the pot of succulents Louis has in front of him. “I’ve never seen a _Crassula ovate_ in an ice cream parlour.”

Louis blinks. It had taken Louis hours to memorise the scientific name of his first plant. What sort of person would know them on the spot?

He presents his plant like a parent would with their child, and decides it’s his responsibility to get them acquainted. “Its nickname is Daniel. It’s still too young to learn its full name.”

“Oh, of course.” The man smiles, revealing a dimple. “Do you mind if I sit? I’ve got a bit of a handful and all the other tables are full.”

Louis nods and moves his plant closer to him so the man has space on the opposite side of the table. He stares the man’s hands. It’s the closest example to _handful_ he’s ever seen. There’s a gelato, a water bottle and phone held together by five fingers.

“How did Daniel come to be?” The man asks, knees awkwardly knocking against Louis’ from across the table.

“He’s my one true companion,” Louis eats another spoon of his ice cream. “The only thing I can trust.”

“Understandable,” the man nods. “Would you possibly trust me if I said my name was Harry?”

Louis pretends to consider. “Is it short for Harold?”

“No,” Harry says slowly. “Is there a problem?”

“Might be,” Louis shrugs. “Because I don’t trust you at all.”

Harry pretends to be affronted. “Are you accusing me of being a spy?”

Louis points at him with his plastic spoon. “Exactly. I can see right through your disguise, Mister. You seem more like a Harold than a Harry. All posh, like.”

“You’re right, I’m really a prince in disguise, working as a spy,” he smiles, dimple prominent in both cheeks. “Am I special enough to know your name, now that we’ve revealed my true identity?”

Louis considers. Harry seems gentle, asking out of politeness and genuine curiosity. It doesn’t seem like he’s flirting; he just appears friendly. “Don’t have one,” he says finally.

“Are you sure about that?” Harry asks, leaning forward as he pretends to interrogate Louis.

“Positive.”

“Your childhood must have been rather difficult,” he continues, raising an eyebrow.

“Was like being invisible,” Louis agrees, and it hits closer to home than it should. “I’m alright now. I’ve got David.”

Harry’s eyebrows furrow, and Louis catches himself staring at the little dent it makes in his forehead. It’s very endearing. “I thought its name was Daniel.”

“Could be Daniel,” Louis shrugs. He’s not too good with names.

Harry laughs. “Does it like ice cream?”

“Only macadamia,” he touches the leaves lovingly, giving Harry a wink. “Nothing too sweet.”

If it was anyone else, they’d have left the table by now, but Harry’s only looking at him with amusement. Louis goes a bit red. “The table’s sticky,” he says in a hurry. “I seem to have a gravitational pull towards them.”

“That’s handy,” Harry nods. He has multiple rings on his fingers and ice cream drips onto one of them. “I have a gravitational pull towards plants, if you haven’t noticed. Do you come here often?”

Louis shakes his head. “No. I don’t really like ice cream. My teeth are sensitive. But I thought I’d take myself out on a date.”

“To eat something you don’t like?”

Louis shrugs. His ice cream is mostly liquid by now, and he mixes it with his spoon. It’s oddly fascinating. “I always take myself out on dates. Infinitely much better than going with someone else.”

Harry looks distraught. “I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?”

Louis looks up, taken aback by the genuine concern. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he apologises. “I’m only treating myself, Harold. No need to fret.”

“Just like me to gate-crash a date,” Harry says, still rather guilty. He doesn’t seem to think that Louis’ strange or lonely, and he finds himself appreciative of the fact. “How’s it going then?”

“Fantastic,” Louis states, and he’s not being sarcastic. He’s actually finding himself enjoying the company of the young man in front of him. “I love being able to make decisions by myself. Do you know how freeing it is to have no agenda? I can go to the aquarium and stare at the jellyfish for as long as I want without having a guy nag me about seeing the eels, for example. Freedom is a nice thing to have.”

“Eels are rather stupid,” Harry agrees. “Did you know they can travel on land for short distances?”

Louis narrows his eyes. “Do you always have random facts lying around for you to say?”

“You have to, if you want to be a good spy.” Harry grins. “Jokes too. Proper funny, me. Want to hear one?”

“Better be good,” he leans back in his chair. “Dating myself means that I haven’t had to fake laugh in a while. Enlighten me.”

For a moment Harry almost looks shy. He hesitates before saying, “which fish dresses the best?”

“Which one?”

“A sword fish.”

“A sword fish?” Louis questions, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, a sword fish.”

“Why?”

“Because-”

“Because?” Louis grins cheekily.

Harry makes a face. “I can’t say it now! Too much build up.”

“Say it anyway,” Louis says gently, endlessly amused.

Harry pouts at him. “It always looks sharp.”

Louis takes a while to process it, and then groans. “That _is_ bad.”

“I warned you. Nearly finished anyway,” Harry says, and _bites_ into his ice cream. “Then I’m looking for creepers. Do you know where you can get a good pair of those? My sister wants them but I can’t find them anywhere but online. I have twenty minutes to find them before I have to go home.”

“Can’t find them if you bite your ice cream,” Louis says in horror. “Are you alright? Has your brain frozen yet?”

Harry licks his lips and looks at his watch. “How long do you think it’ll take for them to be shipped from America? I’ve gotta get them before next week.”

“I don’t even know what creepers are,” Louis says, half expecting Harry to drop to the floor as an ice cube. Instead he watches as Harry finishes his ice cream, his hand dwarfing the cone.

“Ugh,” he says as he picks up his phone from the table. “Sticky fingers. And sticky table too.” He stands up, long legs unfolding and stretching, wobbling in golden boots. “See you around, I suppose.”

“You’re going now?” Louis asks, strangely surprised. He was under the impression that he and Harry were bonding quite well. “I’m not scaring you off, am I?”

“Nah,” Harry throws his napkin in the bin. “You’re great company, and very nice.”

“Then why are you going?”

Harry looks down at him, albeit kindly. “Did you want me to stay?”

“I just thought you were rushing off,” Louis says blushing uncontrollably. “You said you had another twenty minutes. But I suppose spies are busy and all.”

“They have time to eat ice cream,” he gets in reply, and Harry reaches out a sticky hand to shake Louis’. “Thanks for letting me share your table. I really meant it when I said you were nice.” He looks down at Louis’ hand for a few seconds, like he’s examining his fingers. “Enjoy the rest of the day with Daniel. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”

“Sure,” Louis says, turning in his seat as Harry walks off, disappearing just as quickly as he had come.

The whole conversation seemed out of place and rushed, but it gives Louis an odd sense of comfort. The last time he had sat across from someone it had been Joseph, and Joseph had been full of scorn and pride. Harry was a very slow talker, but it seemed that every word he said had meaning to it. Louis has a strange feeling about him.

When he gets home, he searches ‘creepers’ on google. The images that show up are far from what he expected, but make a lot more sense. The idea that Harry’s sister wants shoes and not insects sits better in Louis’ head.

Louis lies in bed and thinks that it would be pretty cool if he could see Harry again.

*

“My favourite customer. Back again?” Niall says, and Louis side-eyes him as he scans the different flavours, although he’s memorised most of them. “This is the seventh time in a week, Louis. That’s one visit every day.”

“Can’t go without my favourite Irish friend.”

“You only met me a few days ago,” Niall scoffs. “I see what you’re doing. Won’t get any free ice cream like that.”

“We’ll have to work on it.”

“If you keep coming every day, we’ll arrange something for you.” Niall nods. “I’ve never met anyone more dedicated than you are.”

Louis makes a sound of protest. “I like ice cream. That’s all there is to it.”

“You like drawing penises on the napkins and leaving them on the table.” Niall gives him a look.

“That’s fun too,” Louis shrugs. “Can I have hazelnut, please?”

Niall takes the ice cream scoop from the tin of water and scoops a decent amount for Louis. “You’re trying to see that curly lad again, aren’t you?”

Louis splutters. “Pardon?” Curly lad? What curly lad. Louis’ never met a curly lad, or even thought about a curly lad in his life. He didn’t even know curly hair existed. He’s trying to look innocent and keep his blush down at the same time, but he doesn’t think it’s working. Niall doesn’t seem to think so either, as he leans forward and tries not to laugh.

“Y’alright? On coming hiccups on something?” His mouth is turned up in a smirk as he places the cup of ice cream on the register. “Anything else for today?”

“That will be just fine, thanks,” Louis says quickly. He’s never going to touch ice cream again.

“Curly lad comes every Saturday,” Niall winks. “Is that helpful for your hiccups?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says as he hands over the money. “I only come here to see your lovely face.”

“One doesn’t sit here for an hour, watching the door and waiting for someone to walk in,” Niall says, and Louis hates to admit that he’s right. He _does_ spend a lot of time sitting and waiting. In his defence, he’s usually marking papers and trying not to place them on sticky spots on the table.

“Saturday?” he asks in a small voice.

“Saturday,” Niall nods, refraining from laughter. “He likes mango gelato and always pays in coins.”

“Huh,” Louis doesn’t know what to say. “Thanks, Ireland. See you on Saturday then.”

He sits at the same table and scrolls through his phone. He takes Daniel and a few essays out from his bag. His class had to write about _Much Ado About Nothing_ and they’re struggling to integrate quotes properly. He sighs, underlining a few words in red. He’ll have to plan a lesson on it soon.

Love seems to be the main topic chosen by his students, and he grimaces slightly. Love is great and all, but twenty-eight papers focusing on the same topic is tiring. His mind strays and wonders if Harry likes reading.

Harry, that stupid boy with his golden boots and long legs and curly hair and big hands. Louis has never been more obsessed with anyone, except for maybe David Beckham. But even then, he’d never gone to an ice cream shop seven days in a row, eight, if he’s counting tomorrow, in hopes of seeing him.

He repeats the word ‘obsession’ in his mind. What does it mean to him? It’s not sexual attraction, that part is sure. Louis doesn’t desire Harry, want to take his clothes off or anything those people feel so often in movies. So is it romantic attraction then? Does Louis want to hold his hand? He’s not so sure, but a small part of his mind says _yes._

 But then again, Louis _has_ only met Harry once, for a total of maybe ten minutes, and at this stage their relationship is completely one-sided and verging on plain creepy.

It makes Louis feel young and unsure again, and he wonders what he’s getting himself into.

*

Halloween is over and Christmas decorations overtake shopping centres, lights climbing up walls like vines. It’s Saturday so the shop is incredibly crowded, which also means the possible chance of seeing Harry again. He doesn’t know what he wants from this meeting, if Harry even comes at all.

Niall’s thankfully too occupied to tease him over what he calls _Louis’ crush_ , as a steady stream of customers come in. Louis doesn’t have the heart to tell him that ‘crush’ isn’t really the proper word to use at the moment.

Louis is actually a very, very clingy person. He’s not ashamed to admit it. He doesn’t believe that kissing or hugging or contact with another human being has to be sexual or romantic or _anything,_ really. He’s always prioritised friendships and loves showing affection. That’s all.

His partners never really understood that. He was accused of leading people on. It’s moments like these where Louis feels like an outsider.

He’s confident and proud, but he’s still learning who he is. It’s going over the definition of _asexual_ in his head, to make sure it still fits him. It’s monitoring his reaction to ‘hot’ celebrities on television to see if he still feels the same. It’s lying in bed at night and wondering what the future will hold for him. Will he have kids? Will he be in a relationship? Does he even want a relationship? Louis vividly remembers when he was younger, when Lottie had told her mum that she wanted “five children and two cats.” Their mum had turned to Louis and said, “And how about you, my dear?”

Louis didn’t know, and he still has no idea. He ponders for hours sometimes, but the answer is never finalised. It depends on how he feels, and who’s around him at that moment. And the fact that he has no idea what he wants makes him feel aimless and insignificant.

Louis’ sets his papers aside as he sees Harry walk through the door and line up in the queue for his ice cream. Niall meets his eye from the register and gives him a wink. Louis pretends not to notice.  

“Hello again,” Harry approaches the table and seems surprised. “Nice to see you again, person with no name.”

“Hi Harry,” Louis says, and it comes out softer than he means it to. “Want to come sit?”

“Sure,” he smiles eagerly, face brightening up in delight. “How have you been since our last meeting?”

What can Louis say to that? I went to get ice cream eight days in a row? I ate pasta and thought of you? I spilt nail polish on my student’s paper because I was thinking of your hair? None of those options seem to be suitable for the situation.

He settles on, “Alright. You?” and hopes that he doesn’t appear awkward.

“Got the creepers,” Harry grins. “Hope they’re the right size. American sizing is strange.”

Louis’ too busy looking at the pattern of his shirt to answer. There are zig zags and every type of existing flora on the material, which is a shocking tone of yellow. It’s the type of shirt that’s meant to be worn on the runway, but somehow Harry seems to make it look casual.

“Where’s Daniel?” Harry asks, placing his bag down on the floor. “He is noticeably absent today.”

“Producing glucose,” Louis replies, shrugging. “I’m not on one of those dates today. ‘S just a normal treat.”

“I thought you didn’t like ice cream,” Harry teases, surprising Louis with his accurate memory. It’s true, after having it every day, in autumn nevertheless, Louis has learnt to be repulsed by anything of a similar temperature or texture.

He shudders. “Even though I hate ice cream, I gain inspiration from it. I need to write a stimulus for the next creative writing piece to give to my class,” he explains.

“I could help you,” Harry offers. “Is there a criteria?”

Louis has never met someone so enthusiastic in his life. It’s probably that, enhanced with the eye contact and a soft, deep voice which makes him seem like such a genuine character.

It’s the first time Louis considers telling a friend, (though the term _friend_ is used loosely) that he’s ace since high school. There’s something about Harry which makes him want to tell him everything. He fiddles with the ring on his finger again.

At first, he considers it a pure coincidence that he and Harry are always seeing each other on a Saturday. It hadn’t occurred to Louis that Harry also enjoyed his company, and that they were no longer there for the ice cream but for each other.

After this mind-blowing discovery, Louis began to add Harry to his routine. Although his Saturdays mostly consist of laundry and marking, and sometimes taking himself on dates, he now makes time to drive up to the shopping centre and have ice cream with Harry.

Louis finds that he enjoys Harry’s company immensely. During the past weeks they were so delighted with each other’s presence that they laughed non-stop for months. After a non-stop rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody, which involved more yelling than singing, Niall was ready to offer both of them discounts if they promised to keep the noise down.

When Harry wasn’t poking his tongue out to eat his food, he was talking about his childhood, his love for yoga and his job as a physiotherapist. It was certainly no surprise, Louis had figured, with hands that size. He probably gave fantastic back massages.

On the first day of December, Harry slides his phone out of his pocket and asks for Louis’ phone number. “I feel like we could go for a walk in the park someday,” he says, making a new contact. His hair is in a bun and tucked under his beanie, visible as an odd lump at the back of his head.  

“It’s winter,” Louis frowns.

“So?”

“It’ll be cold.”

“We’re eating ice cream right now,” Harry points out. There’s a cheeky glint in his eye. It’s quiet in the shop, the only other customer being a young lady on her phone with earphones plugged in. Louis’ laugh echoes in agreement, but his mind is reeling with the fact that they are sat at a one-person table, despite the wide abundance of other tables available.

Louis’ also forgotten the exact day he’d stopped bringing plants around with him. He’s adamant that those two facts are not connected.

Louis enters his number. “You better not be flirting with me, Harry.” Harry merely grins, so in retaliation he types in _Harold_ as his contact and adds five emojis: a poo, a pig nose, a raindrop, a taco and a french horn.

When Harry gets his phone back, his smile is almost blinding. “Ahh, looks like I don’t have to refer to you as _ice cream boy_ anymore. Lewis, is it?”

“Louis,” he corrects him, looking anywhere but at Harry. His heart is pounding unnaturally fast. “The name came back to me. I remember now.”

“Can I add emojis after it?” Is all Harry says, but he starts typing without Louis’ reply. A few seconds after, Louis’ phone lights up.

 _Come see my plants_ , says the notification. _Daniel could make some friends with the ones I have on my balcony._

 _Are you inviting me over?_ Louis types in clumsily.

 _Yes,_ Harry looks up. _Come meet Liam too._

“Liam,” Louis doesn’t remember a Liam. “He a friend of yours?”

“Flat mate,” Harry nods. “Is that a yes?”

Louis considers. Although Harry had only learnt his name a few seconds ago, they had been talking for nearly two months, and Louis could do with more friends outside of the staff room and his soccer team. Besides, it’s been a while since he’s found someone new to hug.

“It’s a yes,” he says finally. “Give me a time and place and I’ll be there.”

The smile he receives is all teeth and shiny eyes, and it’s child-like and beautiful all at once. Louis fiddles with his fringe and returns the smile. Behind Harry’s back over at the register, Niall is twirling a broom around in a celebratory dance.

Louis considers standing up and joining him.

*

Louis curses as muddy water splashes onto the back of his jeans. It’s December, which also means rain, three jackets and wet socks.

Louis doesn’t mind the rain when he’s not in it. The sound of it hitting the roof when he’s under the blankets with a cup of tea is his personal definition of _relaxation and peace_. It also adds a softness to the world. Where Christmas lights are meant to be sharp and pulsing, watching them flash in the rain turns them into coloured blobs, like floating balls of light.

He decides he prefers it like that, and stuffs his hands in his pockets for warmth as he makes his way to the park. There’s a singing snowman under the awning of a shop and its colour resembles that of the sky, but the spirit of the people continues to be merry and joyous. Louis wonders if Harry is immune to the cold, and that’s why he’s so unbothered by winter.

Louis sees Harry as he makes his way along the footpath and towards the children’s playground. He notices that he seems to be one of those festive types. He’s wearing a jumper with Rudolph on it, with white earmuffs and a red scarf draped over his shoulders, which appears to be more of an accessory than a barrier against the cold.

He’s peering down at his phone with a small pout, so Louis texts him. _Hiiiiii_

Harry looks up in the wrong direction before spinning around on the heel of his boot, meeting Louis’ eye. He waves back in answer, pout turning into an expression of excitement.

They buy hot chocolate before walking around in the empty park. The drink burns Louis’ tongue but Harry takes large gulps, cheeks red from the uprising steam.

 He’s also a lot taller than Louis expected. He’d always known that Harry had long legs, but he’d only ever talked to him sitting down. He thinks that if he were to hug him, his shoulder would be the perfect height for his head to rest on. He doesn’t know how to feel about it.

“Tell me about this Liam guy,” Louis says after rubbing his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “What’s he like?”

“He likes making remixes,” Harry opens the lid of his hot chocolate to eat the marshmallow. “He goes for a run every morning although it’s still dark. He has a special way of texting, which is basically incomprehensible. He’s bad at dancing and laughs too much when he’s drunk.”

Louis tries for another sip of his drink, even though his tongue is too burnt to taste anything. He looks up at Harry as his eyes water. “Does he laugh at your jokes?”

Harry narrows his eyes playfully. “One does not need to lose their inhibitions to understand my humour, Lewis.”

They continue their walk in silence until they approach their starting point and decide to stay standing where they are. At this point, Louis’ socks are soaked right through, and he’s sure his shoes are going to smell horrible, but he can’t find himself to complain when there’s just two of them standing in an empty park together.

It’s silent, except for the small trickle of water somewhere behind them. Louis crosses his eyes to watch the puffs of breath flow from his mouth, in time with his breathing. It curls in tendrils, waving through the air like a dancing ghost.

It’s getting dark, the sky tinged orange from the leftover light of the sun when Harry says, “Come over on Saturday. To my place.”

Louis directs his dancing ghost at Harry’s chest. It reaches out to touch the material before disappearing. “Did this walk in the park not fulfil your expectations, Harry?”

“I want to show you my plants,” he explains, head turned to the side expectantly. “We could watch a movie.”

Louis pokes Harry in the shoulder. “Are you asking me on a date, Mister?”

“Absolutely not,” Harry says in a scandalous manner, but his smile says _yes, yes I am._

Louis feels like there’s a dancing ghost in his chest, doing backflips. They’re the good kind; ones that make him feel tingly and warm. “Then I would love to come to your house for our not-date.”

“Wonderful,” Harry says, and blows his own puff of breath towards Louis, then another towards the sky.

Louis hopes the not-date is a successful one.

*

Harry lives in a flat, Louis finds out, and on the fifth floor too, which means he has to walk up ten flights of stairs while carrying a box of frozen pizza. He hasn’t kicked a football in a while, so by the time he reaches Harry’s door he’s puffing slightly.

“Well, hello Louis.” Harry says before he can even knock. Harry’s always so eager, and it makes him smile.

“Hiya,” he starts to take off his shoes and leaves them by the door. His socks are purple today. It doesn’t match the other pieces of clothing he’s got on, but he doesn’t care. By looking at Harry’s sweats and almost see-through shirt, he suspects he doesn’t care either. ‘I brought microwavable pizza.’

“That’s incredibly kind,” Harry sounds like he means it, and pulls Louis into the flat by his arm. “LIAMMM,” he yells obnoxiously, “Louis’s here, and so is some pizza.” To Louis he says, “Liam will _lovvve_ you.”

Louis hadn’t thought it mattered if Liam liked him or not. He wonders if Harry’s expecting him to make a good impression.

A man, (Liam?) walks into the hallway. He’s tall, perhaps as tall as Harry is, and has a birthmark on his neck. Harry grabs him by the arm with his unoccupied hand and drags him closer. “Liam, Louis.” He jabs Liam (it is Liam) in the ribs. Liam doesn’t even flinch. “Why don’t you two get acquainted while I cook the pizza?”

Louis and Liam lean over the counter as they watch Harry place it in the oven. “You must be Ice cream Boy,” Liam says. “You like cable knit sweaters and have a fluffy fringe and teach English. You have ice cream every Saturday and carry plants around with you.”

“That’s me,” Louis raises an eyebrow at Harry, who blushes. “You’re incredibly observant, Liam, knowing all that within a few seconds of meeting.”

“It’s drilled into my brain,” Liam sighs. “There’s this person I know who never closes his mouth.”

“This is unacceptable behaviour,” Harry says, flustered. “Why don’t you two go sit on the couch instead?”

Liam smirks. “Are you sure you don’t need help, Harry? I’m sure Louis would be of some assistance, like inspiration for poetry, perhaps, or a love song-”

Louis feels himself going red. “I’m leaving,” he says as Harry reaches out to slap Liam on the chest. Liam merely winks and leads Louis into the adjacent room, filled with a decent sized TV opposite a couch, which is an interesting shade of light blue.

The window is closed, most likely to keep the cold air out, which means that the light is on bathing the room in yellow, warm tones. On a small table against the wall is _To Kill A Mockingbird_ and a stack of CDs and movies.

It takes Harry another fifteen minutes to prepare a meal, but when it’s ready it’s like a banquet of fast food, complete with a bowl of dipping sauce. They sit around a round table as Harry hands out napkins, as if they’re having high tea. “There’s the pizza, and some salad with dressing here, and there’s paninis that are about ready.”

“Thanks H,” Liam says as they tuck in. Louis finds that with a bit of coaxing, Liam can be brought to high levels of mischief. They find a common interest straight away: making fun of Harry’s way of eating.

“He looks like a giraffe,” Liam says, much to Louis’ delight. “With the tongue out.” He swirls his tongue around in the air, going cross eyed.

“Solid impression,” Louis nods in approval. “Looks just like him actually.”

“I don’t mind being a giraffe,” Harry says, not offended in the slightest. “Apparently some are bi. High rate of homosexual relations or something.”

Liam looks almost exasperated. Harry’s encyclopaedia of a brain seems to spit out facts frequently, although unlike Liam, Louis doesn’t mind.

Louis’ fingers are greasy as he reaches for a second slice of pizza. “How do you have long hair and not eat it?”

Harry flicks his hair over his shoulder dramatically. Even in a faded shirt, he reminds Louis of a prince, trying to blend in with the commoners around him.

“It’s like I’ve got the Midas touch, except everything around me turns oily.” Liam says, wincing. “I’m leaving grease all over the place.”

“Love _Grease_.” Louis perks up in excitement. “I know all the dance moves.”

“Impressive,” Harry makes a face of approval. “Always wanted to be on West End when I was younger.”

Louis smiles at the thought of a younger Harry dancing around in the bathroom, pretending to be on stage. It’s almost exactly like how he remembers himself, except he had to do all the dance moves in his own room. His sisters always used the bathroom to play dress up in front of the mirror.  

Harry offers to take Louis to his room after they’ve cleaned up the food, and Liam makes excuses to leave the flat and runs around for a few minutes, trying to find his left shoe. It’s finally found behind the couch and he’s out in a blink, slamming the door behind him. Harry rolls his eyes.

At first, Harry’s room appears to be one of tidiness and order. However at a closer look, Louis notices smaller things, like the vinyl records spread out on the bed, a guitar and its capo supported by a bedside table and a long mirror on the back of the bedroom door. It appears that the placement of everything is more for convenience than for looks.

“Nice guitar,” he says. “Do you play a lot?”

“I write, sometimes.”

“Write songs?” Louis’ always been interested in the whole writing process, and he immediately admires Harry for the skill.

Harry nods, his smile small. “I don’t always relate to songs, so I like to write my own.”

It’s like an angel has descended from the sky and landed in the room. Louis feels blessed. “Me too,” he says almost reverently.

Harry’s smile grows. “Brilliant! Want to write one then?”

“Now?”

“Why not?” He shoves his vinyls a side so he can sit on his bed, pulling his guitar up with him. He strums a C chord and quickly tunes the thinner E string. Louis watches his long fingers work swiftly, nails bright red and contrasting against the light colour of the guitar’s wood.

Harry catches him looking. “Did them yesterday,” he comments, running his thumb over the other. “They’re alright, aren’t they?”

“It’s sick,” Louis says immediately. “I’d never be able to pull off a red colour. It’d look like my hands have been dipped in blood.”

Harry brightens. “We can do yours later while we watch a film, if you’d like. And I have other colours too. Sit down.” Louis dutifully sits on the edge of the bed. The duvet and his socks match, both a faded purple.

They end up writing a verse and a chorus together. It’s about a place called _home_ , a place of relief after a continuous struggle. It’s about finding a support system and most importantly someone who understands. Louis’ never felt such a connection to a lyrical piece before. “It’s good,” he says, surprised at his own talent. “It’s actually good.”

“You’ve got a nice voice,” Harry compliments, and pokes Louis’ upper arm when he tries to hide behind his fringe. “It’s very soft. Like getting out of the bath and feeling all woozy. You do theatre, right?”

“Ah, pish posh.” Louis pokes him back. “I’m not famous or anything.”

“Details, details,” Harry winks. “Still good.”

 “You’ve got a nice voice yourself,” Louis replies, and he means it. Harry’s voice is raspy, but warm and comforting. “Since we’re using similes, I’d say your voice is like the sun.”

The smile he receives is contagious, and Louis finds himself smiling back. “You should come over to mine,” he continues. “I’ve got a piano. We could play."

Harry beams. “Are you insinuating another no-date?”

“Yep,” Louis says, plucking one of the guitar strings. It vibrates against his finger. “Lads night. Up for it?”

“Up for it,” Harry stands up, opening his walk-in-wardrobe and revealing a small set up, with pillows lined up against the wall and a small TV on one of the shelves. “Pick a movie,” he gestures to a pile as Louis looks around, marvelling at the creativity of it all.

“Did you still want red?” Harry asks as he reaches for a basket and a magazine from under his bed. He smiles when he sees that Louis’ chosen _Grease._ “Thought you’d pick that.”

After starting the movie he slips the magazine under Louis’ hand and starts removing the leftover polish from Louis’ fingers, the smell of the chemicals filling the small space. Louis peers into the basket. “You’ve got some collection there, Harold.”

“Pick whichever one you like,” he replies, rubbing Louis’ nails over with a cotton bud. He’s humming _Grease Is The Word_ under his breath. Louis ends up picking a nice purple, to match his socks. “How’s our pal meeting going so far?”

“Very well, I think.” Louis looks up at Harry to judge his reaction. “Although your Liam boy is very full on.”

Harry looks bashful. “I’m sorry about that. I wasn’t talking about you in a creepy way. It was a _there’s-this-guy-who-carries-plants-around-i-think-we-might-get-along_ way.”

“I thought about you when I was eating pasta,” Louis says, and promptly flushes when he realises how stupid it sounds. “I mean, I was thinking about you all the time. So, it’s mutual I suppose.”

Harry starts painting the nail polish on Louis’ thumb just as the movie opens to the scene on the beach. The liquid feels cool against his nail, the purple contrasting against the black of his ring. “This pal meetup wouldn’t be complete without ice cream,” he moves on to the index finger. “It’s sort of our thing now, isn’t it?”

“Maybe ice cream will be our always,” Louis grins, his free arm flailing theatrically.

Harry laughs. “I’m sure John Green approves.” He raises an eyebrow. “Are you a big fan?”

“I am an English teacher,” Louis says stubbornly. “My students forced me to read it.”

“Of course,’ Harry says smugly, ignoring Louis’ protest. “Did they force you to read _Looking For Alaska_ too? What about _Paper Towns?”_

Louis side eyes him. “You seem well informed on the topic. Got something important to tell me, Harold?”

“Part of my secret spy mission, isn’t it?” Harry’s smile is slow as he peers up at Louis from his new position, lying on his stomach the floor. He always seems to be smiling.

When the first coat of Louis’ nails are done, Harry sneaks downstairs to get the ice cream. Louis stares at the television as he realises that this non-date has in fact been a rather good one. Being with Harry isn’t pressuring, and it doesn’t feel like Louis has to pay attention to every word just to keep up. Instead he feels relaxed and more like himself.

Harry returns with two spoons in his hand and one tub. He sits cross-legged on the floor like a genie and pops open the lid with his thumb. “Cold,” he says, pushing a pillow to the side. “Just to warn you.”

It’s rainbow ice cream, which Louis hasn’t had since he was a kid, and he chooses to scoop a yellow swirl. Harry goes for a blue one, and they grin at each other mischievously before placing it in their mouths.

Louis’ teeth tingle, but it’s worth the sweetness sitting on his tongue. “It’s good,” he gives a thumbs up, moaning in appreciation. “Haven’t had this in a while.”

“Course it’s good,” Harry says, voice low as he reaches in for another spoonful. “It’s our tradition now.”

There’s a sudden knock on the door which makes them jump. “Hey,” Liam shouts, voice slightly muffled. “I’m back, which means no doobly-doing.”

“Sorry?” Louis asks, glancing at Harry in confusion.

Harry sighs and gets up to open the door. Liam shields his eyes immediately. “Are you still getting it on?”

“Pardon?”

“Have you stopped fucking?”

“We weren’t,” Harry laughs in surprise. “We’re eating ice cream.”

“I heard moaning,” Liam half whispers-half shouts, hand still firmly over his eyes. “Don’t deny it.”

“It’s rainbow,” Louis offers. “Want a scoop?”

“Is that code for something?” Liam says suspiciously.

“No, we were really just eating ice cream.” He repeats as he looks over at Harry in amusement, who sighs in exasperation.

Liam removes his hand and opens one eye. His shoulders relax when he sees Louis on the floor, with the tub of ice cream on his lap. “Right. Well Louis, are you staying for dinner?”

Louis keeps his eyes on Harry as he goes through his mental list of things to do. “Do you think I can mark twenty papers in one day?”

“You might inherit super powers to help you if you let me do another coat on your nails,” Harry pouts. “I haven’t finished them yet. And I still haven’t shown you my plants.”

“Your flirting is painful,” Liam says as he makes his way out of the room. “I’ll leave you guys to your ice cream eating. I’ll be with my headphones on the couch if you need me,” he says pointedly, and closes the door.

Louis blinks. Had they been flirting? He doesn’t know.

Harry shakes his head and continues the movie. “Sorry again. Did I tell you about my sister’s cat?”

Harry had not told Louis about his sister’s cat, and judging by his slow drawl Louis estimates that it will take around twenty minutes to explain properly. Still, he gets comfortable on the pillows and lets Harry position his hands so he can paint them. He doesn’t mind listening to Harry talk.

When Louis’ nails are nicely painted and are less likely to smudge over everything he touches, they head out to see Harry’s plants and say goodbye. Harry’s collection is an organised group by height and colour, arranged into a small, slightly discoloured rainbow flag on the balcony. It almost takes up the whole surface area and Louis shakes his head fondly.

He stands with his hands in his pockets to say an awkward goodbye. When Liam’s safely inside and not peeking from the other room, Harry leans in and kisses Louis on the cheek, bending down slightly. “Drive home safe,” is all he says.

“Right,” Louis nods, almost speechless. “Will do.”

“Want me to walk you out?”

“You’ll have to walk back up,” Louis shakes his head. “Ten flights of stairs, Harry.”

Harry shrugs and motions for Louis to start walking. There’s a comfortable silence as they descend the stairs, and it doesn’t really feel like they're parting. More like they’re waiting for a next time.  

*

Time flies by and before Louis knows it, he has two weeks off, and he drives home from work with the radio up and the windows down, even though it’s freezing and makes Louis shiver. Louis has never forgotten the thrill which comes with the start of holidays and what students call ‘freedom.’

And although he still has some papers to mark, Louis knows most of his free time will be spent with Harry.

Louis’ grown unusually close to him in the past few weeks and he’s not sure if the feeling in his stomach is from worry or excitement.

“You’re seeing a boy?” Louis’ mum had said when he had called her. “Well, it’s about time, isn’t it? Is he lovely to you, Lou?” Louis had said that Harry was a wonderful human being, who could give fantastic massages and cook. She had been most impressed.

Daisy had asked if they’d “kissed on the lips yet.” That had made him smile.

At the moment, it’s smooth sailing. Harry greets Louis with a kiss on the forehead and holds his hand gently, like he’s cradling a small bird. They eat food together on the balcony, huddled under blankets to protect them from the cold while watching the sunset. Last night, Louis slept in Harry’s bed.

The worst part is how Louis _feels_ around Harry. Like he’s hyperaware of everything Harry does without meaning to. He’s caught himself sneaking looks at Harry too many times to count. Their hugs are lasting longer too, and tighter. Louis finds himself getting very clingy.

In sexual terms though, they having done anything further than small, warm kisses (which is a good thing, in Louis’ opinion). They haven’t put a name to their relationship, and to be honest, Louis’ too scared to bring it up.

The relationship developed between them has gone beyond the expectations he had for it. It’s almost frightening, the pace it grew, from awkward talks opposite the table to gentle teasing next to each other on the same bed.

Nothing is Harry’s fault; Louis knows the fear is all in his head. Being with Harry is addictive, and Louis clutches onto the comfort of his presence whenever he’s around. He just doesn’t want Harry to lose touch with him.

But does Louis deserve him?

It’s not wrong if Harry insists he wants a partner who can do things Louis doesn’t want to. It’s not wrong if he only sees Louis as a temporary relationship. Doesn’t Harry deserve someone who can give him everything? Someone who’s young and lovely and doesn’t flinch every time someone touches his upper thigh in a club?

There’s not much Louis can do about it.

He turns the radio down a bit. He’s planning to drive up to Doncaster in a few days, and he really needs to start packing if he doesn’t want to forget anything. For one, Harry’s stolen his sweater, and has probably stretched it out. He’ll have to drop by Harry’s place this afternoon to ask for it back.

Louis rubs the tiredness away from his eyes. He’d be stupid to avoid talking about his relationship with Harry, as cliché as it sounds. It’ll just be a matter of time before he has to come out again.

It’s just, sometimes he’s terrified that he’s _wrong_. There are moments where he feels like he doesn’t have a place in this world, and that there’s no room for people like him. He’s scared that if he doesn’t feel the same in the future, it’s not because sexuality is fluid but because he was making things up. Because he wanted to be a special snowflake. Because there really is something wrong with him and he hid behind a label.

It’s a sexual world. Sex jokes are the most common. Truth and dare isn’t much different than _tell me about your sex life_. Photos of naked people are plastered on city walls and normalised in society, and it leaves Louis feeling like an outcast. He doesn’t belong. He’s different. He knows there’s nothing wrong with it but it’s _true._ He’s different and he’ll never be able to out himself without considering each individual person first.

Louis went for years thinking that he felt sexual attraction, simply because he was assigning the wrong feeling to the concept. It was difficult, not having a reference to know what the lack of sexual attraction actually felt like. So when Louis looked _asexuality_ up, it meant nothing to him, because he didn’t know what sexual attraction was in the first place. How was he meant to know he was missing it?

The world wasn’t going to tell him otherwise. No one could help him figure it out but himself.

It had taken a few more months, and then finally after lying in bed for hours in the early morning, he decided that it was _probably sort of completely entirely possible_ that he could identify as such a label.

Coming out to himself was very hard. There was always a _what if_ in his head, nagging at him. He had looked in the mirror once and tried to say it, but it didn’t matter how much he wanted to do it. He couldn’t.

*

Louis’ phone lights up and he reaches blindly for it while reaching for a tea bag. _Come over for a movie,_ it says.

Harry. He figures that he should come out to Harry soon but his stomach lurches every time he thinks about it. He’s always so comfortable with Harry, and feels that being around him encourages him to be himself. He shakes at the idea of Harry telling him that there’s something wrong with him.

Louis knows that Harry would never hurt someone on purpose, but over the years Louis’ learnt that the reactions from people closest to him are sometimes the most hurtful. His best friend in high school had tried to set him up with dozens of partners to ‘fix him.’ His mother had offered to take him to a psychologist.

He’d been too scared to tell his sisters.

He parks outside Harry’s flat for a while, reminding himself to breathe. He tells himself it’ll be fine. Perhaps Harry will be different.

Liam’s wearing earphones when he opens the door and motions him inside without speaking. Louis smiles gratefully and moves into the kitchen where Harry’s microwaving some popcorn. “Hiya,” he places his bag on one of the bar stools.

“Lou,” Harry nods, smiling from over his shoulder. “Tea?”

Louis watches fondly as Harry makes his tea just the way he likes it. “Getting good, Styles,” he says in approval.

“Only for you,” he tilts his head towards the couch. “Is Love Actually alright with you? It’s a tradition for me to watch it every Christmas season.”

“Sappy,” Louis says, but he nods. He has to carry his cup of tea with two hands. He doesn’t trust himself when he’s shaking.

Louis sits on the couch and places his cup on the small table. There’s a Christmas tree on the other side of it, with lights wrapped hazardously around its fake branches and a wobbly star on top. There are already presents on the bottom of the tree, wrapped in sparkling gold paper. Louis wonders if he should get Harry a present.

If Harry still wants to be around him, that is.

He’s sure he’s being dramatic, but the thought keeps popping up in his mind. He’s scared he’ll be treated differently. Treated like a child. Treated like he’s ignorant. Like he doesn’t know anything, and therefore he’s not worthy.

Louis’ always tried so hard to be the best he can be. It’s all he wants to do. He wants to prove to people that he’s interesting, that he’s equal to those in the room with him, that he’s an individual.

He sits next to Harry on the couch and watches him for a moment. Harry’s incredibly easy to read, although he doesn’t reveal a lot of information about himself. To really get to know him, you have to spend time with him.

Louis knows that Harry is nervous.

He’s avoiding eye contact for one, something he never does, and he’s tapping the ring on his finger in a tuneless song. He feels the tension in the room, like someone’s tied elastic around them and is trying to pull them apart.

Harry gives him a small smile as he turns up the volume, so Louis leans his head on his shoulder and takes a deep breath. His leg bounces as he fiddles with the blanket draped over his knees. There’s a loose thread and it’s taking all of his willpower not to pull it. He sees Harry glance over at him and grimaces inwardly. He’s never been good at keeping still, especially when he’s nervous.

He can’t remember the last time he didn’t feel tired.

“You okay?” Harry whispers after a few tense minutes. “You’re very bouncy.”

“Bad day,” Louis says as an apology, but doesn’t stop moving his leg. John and Judy undressing on the television only encourages the uneasy feeling in his stomach.

“Want to talk?” Harry asks, his thumb pressing into Louis’ shoulder in comfort. It doesn’t help.

Now’s the time. It’s just the right moment to say, “Hey Harry, I like you more than I’ve liked anyone else but I don’t find you sexually attractive. Isn’t that cool?” He opens his mouth but freezes.

The first person he ever told was Stan. Stan was very fond of recounting his sexual experiences, and had a cringing habit of rating every woman he saw out of ten. He tried to get Louis to do the same thing with men, until Louis had blurted it out.

“What’s wrong with you?” Stan had laughed, and Louis’ stomach had dropped at the sound. “Having trouble getting laid, are you?”

He blinks rapidly and when Harry comes into focus, he knows he can’t do it.

He can never do anything, can he?

He doesn’t know why it means so much _more_ this time. Doesn’t know why he’s so bothered by what Harry thinks of him, like Harry’s suddenly the most important person in the world and it would destroy Louis if he rejected him.

“Maybe another time,” he says, and his voice doesn’t break but it’s a near thing. “I just want to spend time with you.”

“Okay,” Harry presses a kiss to his temple, and he looks almost relieved. “Okay, but we should arrange a time to talk, alright?”

“Just not tonight.”

“Not tonight,” Harry agrees.

The rest of the movie is spent in silence as Louis curls into Harry almost desperately, listening to him breathe and memorising the feeling of belonging.

Just in case.

*

He gets home and takes off his shoes without untying the shoelaces. There’s a lump in his throat and his chest feels heavy, and he wants nothing more than to lie in bed and not come out for a while.

Louis has a habit of minimising the erasure he receives from being ace. He knows that there are people out there who get kicked out of their homes, who get beaten up in the street, who are considered criminals due to their orientation and get it worse than he does. He remembers walking in the park with his first boyfriend, having to ignore the name calling and the burning stares aimed at their joined hands.

But he also remembers getting hugs and kisses from his family when he came out as gay, the rainbow cake Stan baked him which they ate together after drama class, and the first pride parade he had attended. It had been overwhelming support, relief and happiness that followed Louis around for weeks.

Louis had learnt that “I’m asexual” did not have the same reaction. It had come with “you’re broken” and “you’re not raised right” and “were you abused?” He had been told that he was a “late bloomer” and later a “dysfunctional human being.” He had attended LGBT clubs which left out the ‘Q’. No one noticed the black ring on his right middle finger. Eventually he had learnt to say “I’m gay” instead of “I’m homoromantic and asexual” simply because it was less time consuming.

It lead him to believe that that part of him wasn’t important; something no one needed to know. It wasn’t worth mentioning and anyway, romantic and sexual attraction was pretty much the same, right?

It was only during triggering moments when he was reminded of the secret he hid from certain people, covered by his self-doubt. A scene in a movie. An overdone kiss on the beach. Headlines with innuendos. Sexual ads and popups on the internet. A lyric in a song. Society tells him that part of being human is to have sex, and it hits him in waves.

Dating became a whole new problem, of course. Most of the people he had met up with thought sexual intimacy was crucial in a relationship, and Louis had to out himself in horrible, awkward situations. Often people wanted to compromise with him. They didn’t take no for an answer.

He doesn’t want any of that. He’s fine without it, and he doesn’t care for it. It doesn’t matter how many times he looks in the mirror and tells himself that he’s fine, and that no one will care if he doesn’t feel sexual attraction towards people. He spirals down into a bad day, feeling all heavy and surrounded by guilt and sometimes shame.

And he hasn’t found a single person who feels the same way.

He forces himself out of bed to take a shower. He decides to have one in the dark, so he lights a candle and runs the water. The room fills with the sound of water hitting the tile and it drowns out the voices in his head. Louis rubs his skin under hot water until it’s red, stands under the spray for a few extra minutes before drying himself without looking in the mirror.

His legs shake as he pulls on his warmest socks in his bedroom. He’s always tired. Too tired. He’s tired of being tired.

 _Come over tomorrow, to my place,_ he sends to Harry, the screen wet from his still dripping hair. He plugs his phone into the charger and turns over in bed. He doesn’t want to see what the answer is.

*

Harry‘s peering through the window inquisitively when Louis gets up to answer the door. He presses his face to the glass as Louis approaches, cheek and nose squished into a flat blob. When he removes his face the condensation remains on the glass, so Harry draws a smiley face.

Louis shakes his head and turns the handle of the door, letting Harry inside. “It’s cold.” He shivers as the cold air flows into the house. He takes in Harry’s loose curls and red cheeks and reminds himself to take a deep breath. “Where are your clothes?”

“I have two jackets on,” Harry protests, “and a scarf.”

“That’s a piece of string, not a scarf,” Louis pokes at it. “Though I suppose your hair keeps your neck warm.” He wraps his arm around Harry’s waist and buries his nose in his jumper to hide his nerves.

“Did you get my text?”

“I haven’t read it,” Louis says as he motions Harry to his room. It’s a lie; he’s been staring at the text for the last few hours trying to work out a reply.

Harry knows his way around the house by now, having visited multiple times in the last few weeks. He’s even earned a few high scores on the X Box, which Louis was mortified about, and brought over his own cereal because he didn’t like any of the ones in Louis’ cupboard.

Harry once referred to Louis’ room as a miniature IKEA store. He’s got a bean bag in the corner, random plants lining the window sills, colourful patterned bedsheets and abstract artworks on the walls. Harry had been quick to claim the bean bag as his own and sat there most nights reading poetry as Louis marked homework and papers.

He sits there now, legs crossed as he stares up at Louis and waits for him to start talking.

Louis stares back at him. He doesn’t know what to do. He just knows that he wants to say it this time. Get it over and done with. His legs shake so he sits on the bed, curled up against the pillows.

‘Since you didn’t get my text message,” Harry says slowly, “I’ll ask you now. Are you alright?”

Louis decides to get straight to the point. “What if I don’t find anyone attractive?” His body flushes.

“Oh, Louis.” Harry says softly. The room is suddenly very stifling. There’s a pause.

“What if that’s a thing? That’s me, Harry.” He’s starting to feel overwhelmed, like there’s something in his chest that’s about to pull him up to the ceiling. He lies face down on the bed and closes his eyes.  

“Okay.” Harry sounds like he’s holding something back but he says nothing more.

“I’m asexual,” Louis says, voice muffled as it’s absorbed into the pillow. His eyes are screwed shut, heart beating frantically against his ribcage. There’s silence from the other end of the room.

“Lou.”

“Are you laughing?” Louis borrows further into the bed desperately. “Please don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” Harry sounds impossibly sad. “What makes you think that?”

Louis refuses to answer and doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to see the pity on Harry’s face. He’s concentrating on breathing as it is.

“Lou,” the mattress creaks as more weight is added onto it. “I’m not laughing. I promise.”

“Why not?”

“’S not funny.” Harry says, and wraps a hand around his ankle. Louis tries to kick him away but his hand stays, gripping tighter.

“Think about it again,” the pillow case smells like washing powder. “I, Louis Tomlinson, expert dick artist, hates anything to do with dick.”

Harry shifts so he’s closer, and Louis pulls the covers on top of him. It’s stuffy and hot, but he prefers it to looking at Harry’s expression. “Is this why you’ve been panicking all day? Because you were scared that I’d laugh?”

“No.” the blankets become a fort around him, keeping him and his pounding heart safe. He feels dizzy from the lack of air and the panic that’s set into his skin.

“Don’t hide from me,” Harry pokes at his side through the material and Louis squirms. “I’m okay with it. And you’ll suffocate.”

“Won’t,” Louis says obstinately, but pulls the covers down anyway. Harry’s looking at him with his head cocked to one side. “Don’t laugh.” He fights the urge to hide again. “I’m trusting you with this. Don’t laugh at me.”

“Said so, didn’t I? I won’t,” Harry repeats. “I promise.”

“Okay.” Louis takes a deep breath, staring at the wall just behind Harry’s shoulder. His hair is probably a mess, but he doesn’t care. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Harry hands him a glass of water. “Why do you think I’d laugh at you?”

“Everyone else did,” Louis says and goes bright red. “Don’t pity me. I don’t need that either.”

“Alright,” he nods, and places the glass of water back on the night stand. “Did you want to sit on the balcony? Get some fresh air?”

“Fresh air is stupid. It’s cold,” Louis grumbles, but he sits up anyway. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me for that,” he looks at Louis offering a smile, comforting and familiar.

Louis presses his knee into Harry’s thigh. “I was scared of telling you,” he whispers.

Harry nods, and it’s sort of like an _it’s okay_ and _I know_ all at once.

*

“Thanks for telling me,” Harry whispers later as they sit on stools on the balcony. For once it’s not raining, and it’s warm enough to sit outside with a blanket wrapped around them and not freeze to death. His feet are propped up on the edge of a pot and his socks are covered in damp soil. Louis never understands the way Harry’s brain works.

“Thanks for not laughing,” He replies, and tries to hide the fact that his voice is shaky. It was the first time someone had listened to him properly, and the thought still hasn’t sunk in yet. He stares resolutely ahead.

“You don’t have to say thank you for that,” Harry repeats, scooting closer and bumping his knee against Louis’ bare leg. The fabric of his jeans brush against his skin. ”Would you like to talk about it with me?”

“Now?”

“Anytime you like.”

Louis looks out of the corner of his eye, and upon seeing Harry’s serious expression he turns his head around so he’s facing him. He curses at the blush on his cheeks and wills it to go down. “Do you want to listen?”

“I’ll listen to anything you say, Lou.” Harry replies genuinely, and makes a face as he moves his feet from the pot and crosses them, balancing precariously on the small surface area of the stool. Louis makes a face in return and sits on his hands.

“I don’t feel sexual attraction,” he says slowly, and he’s mostly saying it to himself. “I don’t get what it is. It’s like a different language, and when someone explains it to me I still don’t understand it. What does it feel like when you see someone attractive at a club and want to take them home? I’ve never wanted to do any of that, and I live for parties. Does that make sense?”

Harry nods.

“Don’t just nod,” Louis pleads. “It doesn’t make sense. I’m not explaining it right. It doesn’t even make sense to _me._ How would it make sense to you?”

“It’s fine with me, Louis,” Harry shrugs. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“Don’t say anything bad,” Louis tries to laugh. “Nothing about plants or natural selection. Are you thinking about that?”

“Nah,” Harry sounds sad. “Did someone actually say that to you?”

Louis shrugs.

“It’s not going to change the way I see you or anything. Is that what’s bothering you?”

“Sort of.” A lot of things are bothering him.

Harry nods, then catches himself and smiles ruefully. “I think we should talk about what we want, maybe. Set up boundaries and stuff.”

Louis runs his hand on the railing of the balcony, clearing a line of frost.  “Can we do the whole coming out thing again? I think it was too dramatic.” He looks up tentatively.

“Even for you?”

“Even for me.”

“Go ahead,” Harry says, turning to face him fully and placing his hands in his lap, like he’s a young child sitting in front of the teacher.

Louis makes a face at him. “Hey Harry?”

“Yes Louis?”

“I’m ace.”

Harry smiles. “Okay. Hey Louis?”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Yes Harry?”

“I’m asexual.”

Harry looks completely serious. Louis blinks, taken aback. “Okay.”

Harry smiles then, small and easy. “Well, somewhere on the spectrum anyway.”

He continues to stare, expecting a burst of laughter. It doesn’t come. Harry looks back at him, open and honest. _It’s real_ , his smile says. _I meant what I said_.

“Harry,” his hand is still on the railing. He puts it on his lap instead, mirroring Harry’s position.

“I saw your ring, right?” Harry says, suddenly talking unnaturally fast. “I saw it the same time I saw your plant at the ice cream parlour. I wanted to ask you about it but I never got around to doing it.”

“Why didn’t you say?” Louis stares at him in disbelief. “Harry, why didn’t you say the first time I told you?”

Harry shrugs. “It’s a big moment. Can’t take that away from you, can I? Now it’s my big moment.”

Louis nods dumbly. It takes a few minutes to process the thought that finally, _finally_ , he’s found someone who understands him. It hits him in a way that’s overwhelming, but it’s a feeling he’s been waiting for for years. “Well, for the record, I’m also fine with it.”

Harry laughs, “I’d hope so.” He takes a deep breath. “Scary, isn’t it? Even though I knew you’d be alright with it, I’m still shaking. Look,” he holds out his hand and it seems to almost vibrate in the air, prominent over the stillness of the town at night.

Louis holds out his own shaking hand and reaches for Harry’s. He tugs him closer so their arms are right against each other and pulls the falling blanket over their shoulders. “I’ve never met someone who’s ace,” Louis rubs his cold nose on Harry’s upper arm. “We should form a cult.”

“A cult of aces,” Harry agrees. “Sounds fierce. Are you okay with kisses?”

“They’re not bad,” Louis says, careful to avoid pulling on Harry’s hair as he moves position. “Not always on the mouth though.”

“Okay.” Harry gives him a kiss on his nose, his cheek, then his shoulder. “Was that alright?”

“More than alright,” Louis smiles. It’s the first time he’s smiled all night, but it’s the perfect moment for it.

Outside it’s dark, the pavement briefly illuminated by Christmas lights every time they flash. Louis has to wake up tomorrow to make the long drive to Doncaster, and Harry has to make a similar trip to see his family, but neither of them go to bed.

They sit outside for a few more minutes in silence. In the other buildings on Louis’ street, people are thinking of presents and warmth and the comfort of their friends and family. Even from the balcony, Louis can hear a group of teenagers celebrating the end of the year in the park a few streets down.

They’ve got their own party in their own safe space, wrapped in blankets. Louis blows a dancing ghost and Harry mimics him, blowing into the air to watch it swirl in patterns. Louis watches Harry and thinks that Christmas must have come early for him. In fact, it probably came the day he met a curly haired boy at the ice cream parlour.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So this was the prompt I was given:  
> once a week, Ace!Louis takes himself out on dates because he gave up trying to date other people. He meets Harry at his favourite ice cream location once and then the kid just shows up all the time. Louis is very fond by how enamored Harry is by him but anxious about the situation.
> 
> Also, I suggest looking up the ace ring! It's a black ring, worn on the middle finger of the right hand.


End file.
